Friend in Need
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock and Molly have drifted apart. It takes a friend to bring them back together. Sherlolly


Dr. Molly Hooper, specialist registrar, pathologist at St. Bart's Hospital in London, had been going through a rough patch. That the rough patch seemed to consist of the last seven years of her life was, indeed, unfortunate. It started on the day she met Sherlock Holmes, and in all likelihood would not come to an end until she did.

It had definitely been a rough seven years. She had fallen in lust with him the moment she saw him, and in love with him when she realized how brilliant and special he truly was. He wasn't nice, just wonderful, at least in Molly's eyes. The first few years she had stuttered and stammered in his presence, awed by his presence. But slowly she regained her own self-confidence, nurtured, in fact, by the detective's obvious appreciation of her work. Then he had asked him to kill him, and she had, releasing him into the world to demolish Moriarty's network, with neither of them knowing when or if he would return. Sensing her attachment to him, and wishing to spare her any false hopes, Sherlock had made her promise to move on. And she had.

Two years later, Sherlock had returned to a re-established reputation and a personal world which had vastly changed. John Watson, his best friend and roommate, had, indeed, moved on, finding a woman to share his life. Molly thought she had, as well, found a partner. But this ended shortly after the detective's re-animation, as she, somehow, knew it would. It seems, for Molly at least, there was no moving on from Sherlock Holmes.

But the Sherlock who returned was not quite the man who had left. He was still selfish, dismissively arrogant, and socially inept. But there was a somewhat kinder and gentler edge to him. Molly and he settled into an easy friendship, and with John being married, and an expectant father, Molly found herself more and more involved with the object of her affections.

Recently however, things once again changed, and not for the better. John had appeared in her lab, dragging along a rather scruffy looking detective, dressed in jeans and hoodie, not his usual GQ quality attire. When he had tested positive for drugs, Molly had slapped in hard, and repeatedly. He responded with harsh words about her broken engagement. Then came the news of his engagement to the stunning Janine. Drugs were difficult enough to deal with, but Janine was another matter. Molly had long consoled herself that Sherlock Holmes was simply not interested in women, or men, for that matter. But Janine had brought home the fact that he was simply not interested in her.

When Sherlock was shot, almost dying for real this time, Molly Hooper realized again how much he meant to her, and how little she meant to him. She spent hours at his bedside while he was unconscious, watching his body slowly recovering. When he had regained consciousness, the first name he called was, "Mary." Not his best friend. Not his brother, or his parents, but Mary Watson. Molly was now fully realizing how far down the totem pole of his affections she had slid. When he was released from the hospital for the second time, she had visited him at his flat, bringing flowers, food, and good cheer, none of which was desired nor appreciated. He wasn't working much during his recovery, mostly taking cases which could be handled from his home. He no longer appeared in her morgue to watch as she performed an autopsy. If he needed a report, he would request an electronic copy. No more organs-to-go delivery service to supply his experiments at home. Molly made herself believe that this behavior would end when his recovery was complete. But then she started to hear the gossip being passed around the hospital. Sherlock Holmes had found himself a new pet, they said. "Doctor Death" had lost him to the "Queen of the NIght", a rather sultry morgue attendant who worked an overnight shift, and was more than willing to provide him with whatever he needed, in exchange for a smile, a compliment, and a glimmer of hope for something more. So, Molly supplied him with expert medical services, and the other woman provided fingers, toes, and whatever other human tissue was required. She was now no more than an asset. Perhaps she had been deluding herself into believing she was ever anything else. It was then that she decided that she had to give herself the chance to be more, just to someone other the Sherlock Holmes.

At Christmas of that year, Molly heard that John and Mary Watson were joining Sherlock and Mycroft at their parents' home for the holiday. Sherlock going home for Christmas was unheard of in all the years she had known him. Maybe he was once again trying to connect with friends and family. She wished him well, but from a distance. New Year's came and went with no contact. She sometimes thought of John and Mary, realizing that Mary was getting close to her due date. She thought of calling, but didn't want to initiate contact, and risk getting sucked back into Sherlock's world. And then a ghost appeared on everybody's telly, Moriarty asking the world if he had been missed!

Sherlock was immediately recalled from his four minute exile, imposed as a result of his "murder" of master blackmailer Charles Augustus Magnussen, who had made the lives of hundreds of people, including the Watsons, a living hell. It had taken Sherlock Holmes months to deal with the problem, but dealt with it he had, in the only possible way. For this, he was sentenced to an exile certain to end in death within six months. But the reappearance of Moriarty had commuted his sentence, as he now had another problem with which to deal. He slid into the backseat next to his brother, and said with some agitation. "Get me to St. Bart's! He'll go after Molly now. He won't have overlooked her this time!"

Mycroft Holmes looked at his younger brother appraisingly. "Sherlock, has it really escaped your attention that Dr. Hooper is no longer employed by St. Bart's? That she wasn't been for weeks?"

Sherlock looked slightly stunned. Had it really been so long since he had seen her? Replaying the past few months in his mind, he realized that, preoccupied as he was, it had, indeed, been quite some time. "Wherever she is, we have to protect her, Mycroft!"

"She is well guarded, brother. Always has been, and always will be. I've seen to that. As I have always seen to taking care of you."

"How could Moriarty have survived, Mycroft. It can't possibly be him. I saw him blow his bloody brains out!"

"Of course it's not him, Sherlock! But it got you off that damned plane!"

Sherlock looked at his elder brother, and deduced immediately what had happened. It would have required a huge intelligence and access to innumerable resources to pull off the trick, but Mycroft had both.

"Only four minutes, brother? I thought you would have made me suffer a bit longer!"

"Mummy wouldn't allow it!"

"Well done."

Life went on as usual. Mycroft's people had assured Molly Hooper that she was in no danger. That Moriarty was well and truly deceased, and she had continued protection, in any case. She had been offered a job teaching at a respected medical college in London, with the added opportunity to do research at their excellent facility. She had to accept the position immediately, as the vacancy had been created by the untimely demise of a respected professor, and his classes had to be covered ASAP. It was her lifeline. She could stay in her beloved London, but distance herself from one Sherlock Holmes. So, she had changed her job, changed her mobile number, and attempted to move on, hoping this would be enough.

Her moment of weakness came a few months later, when she accepted Greg Lestrade's invitation to accompany him to a charity affair for a Scotland Yard benevolent society. Greg had been the only one of Sherlock's friends to keep in touch. Of course, that was her fault as well as theirs. She had, after all, changed her number. But Greg was the only one to make the effort to contact her, to check on her well being. She had known the detective inspector just slightly longer than she had know Sherlock, and had always liked him. Now they got together for the occasional drink at the pub, commiserating over his somewhat over complicated love life, and her lack of one Sometimes they shared takeaway and detective movies. They were friends in a way she had thought she had been with consulting detective, but had come to believe she never was.

Greg was the first to spot Sherlock, standing conversing in a corner with John and Mary Watson. "Do you want to say 'hello'? Or shall we ignore him?"

"Of course, we say 'hello'! It would be rude not to!" Molly took a deep breath, and followed Greg across the room.

Greg was the first to speak. "Hello, everyone. Glad to see you could make it!" Then he leaned in to kiss Mary on the cheek.

Molly smiled, and quietly greeted John and Mary, then turned to their companion, "Hello, Sherlock. You look well."

The only response she got was a small nod of the head and a muttered, "Dr. Hooper."

Greg led the conversation, as Molly was looking a bit uncomfortable, swaying nervously from one foot to the other, commenting only when necessary, while Sherlock Holmes barely said a word. But he couldn't miss the way Molly winced as he used her professional title instead of her given name for at least the third time, and decided to extricate them before he was too tempted to punch his erstwhile friend squarely in the nose. He had guided Molly back to their table, but before he sat down he turned to cross the room again, and approached Sherlock with a determined look in his eyes.

"Listen, you git! You seem to have developed a habit of forgetting the names of people who have saved your life. On more than one occasion. I don't give a damn, but she does, for some reason. Her name is Molly, and don't you ever forget it again!"

John stood there looking slack jawed, Mary smiled at his calling Sherlock to task, and Sherlock paled as Greg made his way back to Molly Hooper.

"That really was a bit not good, Sherlock." John murmurred.

"I know, John, I know." Sherlock Holmes muttered and walked from the room.

It was a almost a fortnight later that Molly received a text from Sherlock. Surprising because she had not, of course, given him her new number. Not surprising, because he was, after all, Sherlock Holmes, great detective.

I'M SORRY - SHERLOCK

FOR WHAT? - MOLLY

FOR HURTING YOU - SHERLOCK

WHICH TIME? - MOLLY

Molly sighed. She believed that he had never meant to hurt her. What she could never figure out was why he did. It would have cost him nothing to be distantly polite. To be detached. But Sherlock had always seemed to draw her in a bit, before pushing her away with a hurtful remark or devastating action. She just couldn't take it anymore, and was relieved when she received no further messages.

Summer was just around the corner when Molly Hooper was awakened at three o'clock in the morning by a phone call. She had grown unused to such calls since parting ways with the consulting detective and his circle of friends, and it was with a huge sense of impending doom that she grabbed her mobile from the nightstand, and realized that is was DI Greg Lestrade calling.

"Greg?"

"Molly, I knew you would want to know immediately. Sherlock's been shot. It's serious…"

"Where is he, Greg? Where have they taken him?"

"Get dressed, Molly. I'm already on my way. I'll be there as quickly as I can."

The ride to St. Bart's seemed to take forever. Greg had been explaining what happened, but the only words that Molly had actually heard was "bullet close to heart", "flatlined", and "holding his own". When they arrived, they were ushered into a waiting room, where they joined Mycroft Holmes and John Watson. Greg went to John, as Molly approached Mycroft.

"John, what's the latest?"

"He's got a good chance, Greg. He's in surgery to remove the bullet and repair the damage. But he's strong. He…" John almost lost it, but Greg put his hand on his shoulder.

"He does seem to have become a bullet magnet, of late, John. He'll pull through. Don't they say that only the good die young?"

"Why did you bring Molly, Greg? Does she really need to go through this?"

"I didn't bring her for her, John. I brought her here for Sherlock. He'll need her."

"I don't understand…"

"You will."

Both men turned to look across the room to where Mycroft Holmes and Molly Hooper were standing together. Mycroft was speaking in a low voice, obviously explaining his brother's condition. Molly was looking up at him, concern all over her face. When she reached her hand to touch his upper arm, and started to massage it gently, Mycroft Holmes, the "Ice Man" as he was known in some circles, released a shoulder shaking sob and allowed the small woman to hug him consolingly, just before he moved his long arms around her.

John Watson had always told himself that he loved Sherlock Holmes like a brother. It was just beginning to occur to him that Sherlock had a brother who loved him every bit as much. And, it seemed, a pathologist. You always miss something, as the detective often said.

Minutes turned into hours as the group sat in uneasy silence, hoping for the best and dreading the worst. When word finally came that Sherlock had come through the surgery better than had been expected each reacted in their own way. John shouted and gave a small cheer, lifted his fist in victory. Mycroft regained his composure, straightening his stature as he reached for his mobile, but never let go of Molly's hand. Greg Lestrade shook John's hand before pulling him in for a hug, then quickly moved to wrap an arm around Molly Hooper's shoulder.

Dr. John Watson, being an attending physician at St. Bart's, as well as Sherlock's personal physician, was the only one of the four allowed into the recovery room, while the others were made to wait until the detective had fully regained consciousness and been removed to a private room. When he approached the bed, he was taken aback to to see his friend tethered to machines and monitors, but, thankfully, breathing on his own. He definitely looked the worse for wear. His skin looked too pale, and the shadows under his eyes too dark. His breathing was regular, but seemed shallow. John sat himself down, waiting for the moment when he would see Sherlock fighting himself back to reality.

It seemed to take a long time, but in reality it was only a matter of minutes. The detective's eyes began to twitch, and his tongue moved furtively over his parched lips. John picked up a glass filled with ice chips, feeding them slowing into Sherlock's mouth to relieve the dryness, calling his name to help lead the way out of his enforced deep sleep. He thought his friend was trying to form words, to say something. By the way he was struggling to get it out, John felt it must have been very important, and leaned in closer to try to catch it.

"Molly."

As a doctor, John knew that the anesthesia was wearing off, and that the patient was now emerging into wakefulness through a wall of increasing pain. "Are you in pain, Sherlock? Do you need pain medication?"

The words came slowly. "No drugs. Promised Molly." He groaned. "My Molly,"

The truth of what Greg Lestrade had said was finally beginning to dawn on John Watson. He had brought Molly Hooper to the hospital not for her own benefit, but for Sherlock's. Greg had known, somehow, that Molly would be the one he called for. The one he wanted. And if Sherlock Holmes wanted Molly Hooper right this moment, then rules he damned. He would have Molly Hooper. Now. And John Watson would see to it.

John returned immediately to the waiting room and, removing his white lab coat, hurriedly bundled Molly into it, and practically pushed her toward the surgical recovery room.

"Quickly, Molly, he's coming around. And all he wants is you!"

Tears filled her eyes, as she hesitated just long enough to kiss John on the cheek before she sprinted down the hallway.

Mycroft approached John, putting his hand on his shoulder, "Thank you for that, John. I'm sure they will both appreciate it."

Greg was the next to speak. "So, how's it going. Is he going to be alright?"

"Looks that way, mate. Vital signs all good. Surgery was a success. He's survived worse!" John then looked at him with a puzzled smile. "How did you know, Greg?"

"I'm a detective, John. I may look second rate next to Sherlock Holmes, but I'm far from it. He's been in love with Molly Hooper for ages. The bloody arse had convinced himself that he was no good for her. The whole sociopath, drug addict, people may try to kill you thing. Well, while he may not be the only one who believes that he doesn't deserve her, the decision is not really his to make. And Molly has always believed that he'll do just fine! All I needed to do was to get them together at a vulnerable moment. And a man tends to be slightly vulnerable with a bullet in his chest! And heavy duty narcotics in his system. Molly will take care of the rest, trust me."

Mycroft Holmes looked at Lestrade with new respect. "I, for one, will never underestimate you again, Inspector. Allow me to thank you on my brother's behalf, as I am sure, left to his own devices, he may never get around to it."

It was hours before they were able to see Sherlock and Molly. The patient was comfortably, or as comfortably as possible considering the circumstances, ensconced in a hospital bed in a private room at St. Bart's. He was still clutching Molly's hand, having not let go since he came to in the recovery room. He looked like hell, but was smiling. He continued to smile even when informed that Mummy and Papa were on their way.

"I hope you're well prepared for all the crying and wailing that you are about to endure, brother dear."

"Not to worry. I intend to distract them from the misery with the news of my upcoming wedding."

"Ah, and when will this wedding be, Sherlock."

"As soon as I am able to fully enjoy my honeymoon, Mycroft!"


End file.
